Monday, December 20, 2010

The wine is an old school photo, a disgusting memory from a bad year that makes your stomach churn. You put down the rosé and move on. It's a big cellar. Must be something somewhere to take your mind off of life for a while; right now, all you want on your mind is your hat.

A picture got you into this mess, a portrait of old man Death; it was its puzzle that stuck his beak into your business. Another portrait mocks you nearby. A Scottish Terrier sits idly by, blissfully unaware and staring out of its frame. It's a Scotch on the grass, but you'd prefer a scotch on the rocks. You peek behind the portrait, but it's a dog's life and nothing more. The little shrine isn't hiding any secrets--- at least none it cares to tell you at this time. You stare back at the dog. This dumb mutt is just that--- dumb. You move on.

The rat called the cops and out they crawled through the hole in the wall. She sings like a canary through her wet, birdy tears. The rat cop listens, a stone solid look of disinterest spread across his face. The weeping widow spins her tale, her tail spinning slowly behind her in distraught arcs, her dead love still beside her, colder by the second. She describes the perp, a red-headed man in a brown cap. The rat cop drops his eye on you, some stranger down on his luck who just happens to match the description. Maybe an open and shut case, he thinks; maybe a quick night of it before some cheese donuts back at the station hole. He's got your number all right... and that number is twenty to life in Sing Sing if you don't think of something fast.